


Always

by hemotyping



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dream Bubbles, Established Relationship, One Shot, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Potential Suicidal Ideation, i dont do enough quick lil oneshots so here you go, this was meant to be fluff but Someone (me) caught feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 00:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8689582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hemotyping/pseuds/hemotyping
Summary: Nowhere is it written that your salvation extends to the fallen.(In which the worst kind of long-distance relationship is the kind where one of you is dead.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was in a really Erikar mood so I wrote this instead of sleeping/doing homework. Unbeta'd.

Dream bubbles are really, really fucked up. You’re pretty sure at this point you could write a twelve-paragraph essay on all the ways in which dream bubbles are fucked up.

One way among many in which Feferi’s bullshit lusus utterly botched the whole memory-afterlife thing is that it’s nigh impossible to tell which version of someone is from what timeline. You’ll think you’re reuniting with a dead friend, but it turns out it’s some fucked up alternate from a timeline in which giant musclebeasts stampeded everyone to death. (You’ve decided all ghosts should wear labels with serial numbers, like marathon runners.) The only way you can really tell if a ghost is one of  _ your  _ ghosts is if you get thrown into one of those bullshit flashbacks with them.

Except when it comes to Eridan.

When it comes to Eridan, you always know.

There are a shit ton of ghosts in the dream bubbles. You passed by tens, maybe even hundreds, of alternates of him before you reached  _ your  _ him. He wasn’t dressed any differently than the average iteration, wasn’t acting any differently, wasn’t jumping up and down or waving his arms or doing really anything to get your attention. But something made you stop and watch him, and something made him look up at you like he wasn’t sure you were real. It was something in his eyes, maybe, something in their shape and shine, even when milky and faded in the way you’ve grown accustomed to seeing your friends’ eyes cloud over, that was undeniably yours. The same thing that made you forgive him, forgive him over and over, every single night, and fucking love him even deeper (paler, stronger) every time.

That’s how you are, you and Eridan. You always know.

_ Always  _ is pretty often, too. People used to accuse you of having insomnia, whereas truthfully you would choose not to sleep; regardless, you admit that it probably wasn’t healthy. Eridan has fixed that. You also tend to find him more often than you think the mathematical probability of running into a specific ghost in the dream bubbles should allow for. You’ve developed a hypothesis that, similar to the way normal dreams can be guided by what you’re thinking about as you fall asleep, this happens because every time you close your eyes there’s a part of you that hopes you’ll get to see him.

And you do, every once in a while. He spends most of his time fucking around in echoes of his hive or wandering around other people’s memories. When you find him, you press your face into his chest (there’s a reason he hasn’t gotten any taller, he always says, but you’ve got no excuse) and he wraps his arms around you and just stands there for a few minutes before you tell him to take you somewhere warmer. He’s always so happy to see you, which is what kills you. He doesn’t wear it on his sleeve, of course, but you can tell. It’s like every time you leave, he starts to think you’re not coming back. And you, of course, you have to wonder if that’ll happen someday, if you finally win this godforsaken game. 

Nowhere is it written that your salvation extends to the fallen. 

You wonder what will happen to him.

You tell him these concerns, naturally; what kind of palemate would you be if you didn’t tell him your concerns? He tells you he doesn’t know what to think of all that. He tells you he figures you’ll find out when you win. You know he’s worried too, he doesn’t hide it from you, but you let him comfort you and you let him be comforted, because you don’t want to waste your time with him on clinging to fears you can do nothing about. 

He likes to say you’re the only salvation he needs. (Because he’s a giant sap, and because he knows you like that bullshit.)

The one thing you haven’t told him, you can’t bring yourself to tell him, is that sometimes you comfort yourself with the knowledge that there’s a good chance you’ll die once your meteor reaches the new session. Death doesn’t seem so bad from where you’re standing, anyway.

You think he knows, anyway.

Time is pointless in the dream bubbles, so you never know how much time has elapsed once you’re in some pile, nestled in beside Eridan and mumbling curses about the ending of  _ The Breakfast Club _ . His hands are soft and graceful and strong, like all the worn tropes of the privileged highblood, as opposed to your wide and rough. You think the two of you would make for a good romance novel. His grey skin doesn’t feel quite like it used to, you think, which could be because he’s dead, could be because you’re dreaming, could be because you never touched him that much when he was alive. You listen to the weird sounds of his weird seadweller vascular system while he updates you on ghost drama (of which there is a surprising amount), and interject loudly when you see fit. Eventually, always, your eyelids grow heavy, and you fight to keep your eyes open because falling asleep here means waking up on the meteor, and being awake without this egregious asshole by your side isn’t really worth it at all.

His gills flutter a little when he sighs; it doesn’t take long for him to notice you’re getting drowsy. Sometimes, he asks you in that soft voice he has not to leave him yet, and sometimes it makes you start crying all over him. Always, you stay as long as you possibly can, talking him through everything that’s on his mind, forgiving him again and again.

Sometimes, the drowsiness is just too much, and he kisses you on the forehead and tells you he’s pale for you and tells you to find him again soon (please), and then he gently cups your face in his hand and you drift. Sometimes, you hold it off until suddenly, unexpectedly, you’re ripped away. Eventually, always, your eyes open to the ceiling of a block that does not have Eridan in it.

* * *

 

Strider is repetitively nudging you with the toe of his sneaker, and makes some witty remark about you passing out on the floor again when he sees you’re awake. You scramble to your feet, growling, and proceed to berate him at the top of your lungs for waking you up. He announces to no one in particular that you’re throwing a tantrum for no fucking reason again and he should put a sign on the door to warn people or something. You curse at him as he leaves, your fingers tracing the ghosts of the cold trails Eridan’s rings left on your cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> tell me what u think yo


End file.
